


Aching

by Langerhan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Disability, Hurt/Comfort, Massage, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27974507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/pseuds/Langerhan
Summary: Before the switch, Aziraphale didn't realise how much pain Crowley's body still carried. Afterwards, he's determined to do what he can to help a little.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 108
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Aching

The bloody awful thing is that bodies remember pain. 

When one has been inhabiting a corporation for several millennia, the line between _body_ and _self_ becomes rather blurry. Brains, for instance: a few thousand years can make one quite forget that they're just soft tissue with habitual electrical pulses. The brain can start to think of itself as a self, rather than as protective decoration just in case its owner ever finds themselves in an awkward situation involving an MRI machine and light emitted on an irritatingly irregular wavelength. (The radiologist at King's was suspicious of the machine right up until his early retirement.) 

This is why Crowley and Aziraphale both swore loudly the first and second times they tried each other's flesh on for size. 

By the third time, Aziraphale was used to the stabbing and the twinging, and Crowley was used to the wincing and the apologising. It did well enough for them not to mention it again. 

“Poor boy,” Aziraphale murmurs a long while later. He thinks Crowley's asleep on the sofa. Crowley opening his eyes to roll them comes as a surprise. 

“What is it this time, angel?” 

“Ah. My apologies,” he says. _The burn in your feet_ , he doesn't say. _The ache along your spine and the way your hips feel split. The cracking pain in your chest and the bruises along your ribs. The way you spent most of today scowling and thinking I wouldn't notice._ Instead he asks, “Could I run you a bath, perhaps?” 

Crowley's flat has a bathtub with delightful pulsing jets. Aziraphale fills it with water warm enough to scald, because that's the temperature Crowley has his baths at (especially on days like these. The days when winter makes him sway and stumble even more than usual). Aziraphale adds lavender oil and enough salt to float a Kraken. It helps; not a lot, but enough to notice. Crowley undresses and sinks into it. 

The scales on his feet shift as he rolls his shoulders in the water. Aziraphale presses the button for jets and bubbles. It's not much, but it's something that's better than nothing. 

Crowley shivers and sways when he gets out. It would be easy for Aziraphale to pluck him up and carry him to the bed, but he knows Crowley won't stand for it. He averts his eyes instead while the darling demon makes his way across the flat. Affording him the thin veneer of cool is the least he can do. 

His body's a pale line against the dark sheets. Some days he lays on top of them for a while before summoning the energy to crawl underneath. Today is one of those days; it's a day Aziraphale fully intends to take advantage of. 

“Darling chap,” he says, undoing his bow tie, his waistcoat, his buttons, pulling clothes off to fold them neatly on the chair which has been provided solely for him, ruining the clean and stark lines of Crowley's bedroom, “may I?” 

Crowley grunts in the affirmative. It's close enough. Aziraphale rubs warm oil over his hands and starts on Crowley's feet. He's reminded of their shared time in the Levant, although most feet had been far less scaly in those days. He presses hard enough to change the input.

“Mmm. S'good,” Crowley says quietly. 

His tight calves are good; his scarred thighs are good; his barely-there arse is good; his lower back is – not so good, not at first, but the pressure helps. The pressure and the wine from earlier, anyway. 

Crowley's breath steadies. It's easier when he's being touched. Aziraphale leans down to place a gentle kiss at the back of his neck before pushing two soft hands into his sore shoulders. 

Crowley is half-hard when he rolls onto his side. His body has apparently decided that a temporary reprieve in agony is close enough to arousal as to make no difference. Aziraphale wraps himself around him, one arm across his chest, the other rubbing the back of his head like a gentle and beloved pet. 

“Not as good as heroin, but easier on the stomach,” Crowley comments. 

“Oh, hush,” says Aziraphale, patting him lightly on the back of the skull. “I hope it helped a little, at least.” 

Crowley wriggles backwards into the heat of Aziraphale's chest. “Yeah. You did good.” 

As an angel, it's everything Aziraphale can hope for. As the owner of a body which is currently being wriggled into, he has hopes which are a little more corporeal too, but those ones aren't his priority. His priority is currently sighing, taking advantage of their mutual heat, and flailing roughly at the covers. It's easy for Aziraphale to pull it up over them and snuggle into an embrace he hopes will provide a little respite.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months ago and thought I'd leave it as one of my anonymous meme fills, but then a friend was talking about this chronic pain fic they'd read which contained a line they could still remember. I said it sounded interesting and asked for a link. ...Then I read the fic and realised I'd written it, so I thought I'd put it here instead so that it was easier to find.


End file.
